Journey of a Soul
by wanderingmaiden
Summary: Fun fact #666: One cannot kill himself with the Avada Kedavra curse.  Voldemort's killing curse at the end of DH kills Harry while the Horcrux survives.  What happens when a piece of the Dark Lord is in the Savior's body?
1. The End

Albus Dumbledore waited patiently on a bench in Kings Cross Station. This was not unusual; he had been to Platform 9 ¾ to take the Hogwarts Express many times, first as a student, then as a professor and finally as headmaster. But never before had he been there as a ghost.

Perhaps ghost isn't the best way to put it. Technically speaking, the Albus Dumbledore in the train station was the projection of a dead man in the subconscious of a living being. And if we are to be entirely accurate, the train station was not actually Kings Cross (although this was already evident by the absence of people and the hospital-like cleanliness that any public place is incapable of acquiring in reality) and Albus was not expecting a crimson train to take him away. Alone but for a whimpering pile of rags in the corner, Albus was waiting for the boy whose brain he occupied; one Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who at the moment was walking through the Forbidden Forest to a final confrontation with the Dark Lord.

ooOooOooOooOoo

Harry Potter was unusually calm for someone about to die. At first glance, one could mistake him for a man going for a stroll with nothing to worry him except thoughts about tonight's dinner or tomorrow's meeting. However, closer inspection showed flaws in his mask. His walk was too purposeful to be mistaken for a casual meander, and the falsity of his face's tranquility was betrayed by a determined fire in his eyes. Of course, no one walks through the Forbidden Forest without worries unless he has no care about what happens to his person, and Harry Potter, while still breathing had long since given himself up to death. He would meet his end with no regrets. Harry had spoken to his parents through the resurrection stone (which he had used and then promptly tossed deep into the forest) and knew that happiness would be there for him in the great beyond. It was not that he didn't love his living friends. He did, with the entirety of his lion-sized heart. In fact, it was for them that he was ready to set out upon "the next great adventure" a little earlier than expected. His martyrdom would be seen as tragic, the end of an era, the loss of hope for the Light, but he had faith in his friends that they would live and fight on until all the darkness had left the world. And when they died, in a far off future, they would all meet again.

Victorious shouts reached his ears as he approached an area of thinning trees. Someone was shooting up sparks of multicolored light in celebration, unknowingingly mimicking the effect of a muggle fireworks display. Even Death Eaters can create something beautiful, Harry mused. He smiled sadly, took a deep breath and stepped into the clearing.

The Death Eaters' talking died down instantaneously, as if those present had been hit by a blanket _silencio_. The wizard conjuring the sparks stopped at his entrance. Harry mourned their absence.

"Ah. The great Harry Potter has arrived at last" Sarcasm dripped from Voldemort's words. "The poor hero, ready to die for his friends. Any last words?"

Harry took another step forward, spine straight, chin raised, refusing to rise to the taunts. Eyes of emerald and blood red met in a fierce look. No hatred or fear passed from green to crimson, just a knowing sense of perception and resignation. Tension gathered as the two stood, a connection so strong a string of energy seemed to form between the two, much like the golden threads of Priori Incantatem had three years previous. And, as he had the first time, Lord Voldemort was the first to crack. He wrenched his gaze away as hatred for the boy overwhelmed him. Almost unconsciously, the Dark Lord raised his wand arm and aimed at the silent figure across from him.

"Avada Kedavra!" he cried into the quiet night.

A furious emerald beam of energy struck Harry in the chest. He remained standing for one long second, then fell to the ground gently as a tree. The light of the wizarding world was gone.

ooOooOooOooOoo

Albus Dumbledore was still sitting motionless on the bench when a rumble startled him out of thought. He leapt to the side with great agility for his age (although the dream state cannot differentiate between old and young anymore than it can living from dead) just moments before a large chunk of plaster ceiling landed on the wooden bench, snapping it in two and sending splinters of wooden shrapnel flying across the platform. He dodged another bit of rubble as the shaking grew more intense. The creature in the blankets began to wail, not the cry of a small, terrified child, but an unearthly, inhuman screech of unimaginable agony. The bundle seemed to grow taller and the shrieks, while not diminishing in volume, became lower in pitch. Enormous tremors knocked Dumbledore to the floor. For a brief moment, Albus saw Harry Potter, standing like an angel in the midst of chaos, eyes closed, emanating peace. Then the moment passed, and Harry Potter vanished.

The previously pristine white surroundings were instantly replaced by those of shining obsidian. In his shock, Albus barely registered the fact that the earth had stopped shaking. He stared aghast at the tall, cloaked being stepping out of the blankets. It turned, and dark bloodshot eyes kept him paralyzed where he lay.

"You lost, Dumbledore," the creature hissed. "This is my mind now."

Everything faded in a cacophony of high-pitched laughter.

ooOooOooOooOoo

"fell gently to the ground gently as a tree": 50 house points to whomever can guess the book reference (Hint: it's not Harry Potter!)

I hoped you all liked it! Please review with comments and criticism. I'm always open to suggestions!

Disclaimer (at the end because I hate when it breaks up the pace at the beginning of the story): I do not own Harry Potter. I am not J.K. Rowling. Please review anyway. I receive significantly less mail than she does and _will_ reply to your comments.


	2. A Lesson in History of Magic

What is history of magic? Ask any Hogwarts student. Most will reply with some drivel about goblin wars. A select few particularly unmotivated pupils will likely fall asleep at the mere mention of the dullest class at the most prestigious school of magic in the world. Not much is expected of the subject taught by an absentminded ghost. Dumbledore could have hired a new professor but, considering he received the same learning experience as a student, perhaps some misplaced nostalgia or misperception that history of magic was useless allowed him to delay the decision. Little could he have known that in the Founder's era it was one of the most important subjects taught. Unfortunately, this oversight led to ignorance about some of the most well known spells in the wizarding world, including the third Unforgivable curse, avada kedavra.

You see, history of magic was never meant to be a lecture on the history of the magic world. No, it was a lesson on the history of magical spells—their creators, original purpose, evolution, and classification as light or dark. Back in the day, any half-wit could tell you that the summoning charm was created by Bertram the Befuddled who got fed up with never being able to find his false teeth in his old age. (Ironically, although his spell theory was flawless, he could never use the spell, being unable to enunciate _accio_ clearly enough without his dentures in his mouth.) In the goblin wars of the 17th century, it was labeled a dark curse as defenders used it to summon the vital organs from the bodies of their living opponents. In the year 1700, the newly founded Ministry of Magic declared it a light household spell.

But I digress. The curse in question, used upon Harry Potter for the second time on May 2, 1998, is avada kedavra, the killing curse. The original incantation, abada kedabra was created by the Ministry of Magic as a painless, humane form of the death penalty before the introduction of the dementor's Kiss as the primary method of disposing of the evil within the wizarding community. Of course, like many government initiatives, it was highly controlled and certain safety measures were established after Auror Henry Swineforth accidentally killed himself with it during a standard execution which was interrupted by news of another goblin uprising. The Ministry restricted the legal use of the spell and changed the incantation to avada kedavra, which limited the spell to only be used with murderous intent on others.

Due to their faulty education, neither Harry Potter nor Lord Voldemort was aware of this restriction when the Dark Lord killed the emblem of the Light once and for all. Nor did the victor realize that one soul (or at least a fraction of a soul) still resided in the body of Harry Potter.

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An eerie, high-pitched cackle filled the clearing of Death Eaters. After so long, years of fighting and hiding in the shadows, the Dark side had defeated its two greatest obstacles—Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. Voldemort's face split into a wicked grin.

"Let us go and show those fools how much of a _Savior_" he spat the word "their golden boy was." He moved to leave the clearing, raising his wand to levitate the corpse ahead of the merry party, then hesitated, his maniacal grin widening further. "Why don't we have the half-breed carry his precious hero?"

A death eater moved behind Hagrid, prodding him with his wand towards the body. With a gentleness belying his size and strength, the half-giant picked up Harry's body. Tears streamed sown his face, and a half-sob escaped before the wand jabbed him fiercely in the small of the back, silencing his grief. He cradled the body closer, as if to protect him in death as he couldn't in life.

The group began their funeral procession through the forest, Death Eaters and Dark Lord alike celebrating their victory with cheers and sparks, a lone tall figure loping behind with his precious burden.

No one noticed when, halfway en route to the castle, the dead man's eyelids lifted, revealing cruel black eyes that most definitely did not belong to Harry Potter.

ooOooOooOooOoo

Sorry it's kind of short, but this seemed like a natural place to end. Once again, I humbly request reviews and comments! Thanks for your encouragement last chapter!


	3. So this is Hell?

Tom Riddle stood in the darkness which moments before had resembled King's Cross Station. _How did I survive occupying the body of such a fool,_ he mentally scoffed. _Having Dumbledore of all people in his mind. No wonder he walked straight into death. Gryffindors, not an ounce of sense among all of them put together_. If he were at all superstitious, he would call his survival a miracle. After sixteen years of waiting in that boy's mind, watching his vessel nearly die countless times, helplessly witnessing the destruction of each of his precious horcruxes, he had lost all hope (not that the Dark Lord would ever admit to harboring such a disgustingly Light emotion such as hope.) When the Gryffindor idiot had turned himself in, Tom had known his time had come. Not even Lord Voldemort was aware of the portion of his soul that resided in the boy.

And yet, when that oh-so-familiar emerald light had shot toward them, he had not felt any pain or loss of strength, but rather an inexplicable power returning to him, as if iron chains which had held him down for years were suddenly lifted. He readied himself for the battle over Potter's mind. The boy would undoubtedly refuse to surrender, but there was no way that, after the resurgence of power within him, he would lose to Potter again. There was no need for his preparation. A flicker of Harry's presence passed through his awareness, then disappeared as quietly as it had come, like a candle extinguished by a slight breeze. And then all that remained was Dumbledore, the last vestige of Harry's subconscious, who had looked up at him with those eyes, so old and weary and helpless. And Tom had thrown him out.

So here he stood, free and in control for the first time since sixteen years previous when he had been violently ripped from Lord Voldemort's mind as Lily Potter's protection prevented the death of her son. The space seemed oddly empty. He was finally alone in his mind; the privacy of thought that most took for granted was his at last!

Tom was struck by a realization. He had control over the mind now, certainly the body would not be so different? It took a minute for him to convince Potter's brain that his will would be controlling it from now on. Again, he experienced little struggle as the synapses clutched to any consciousness they could find. Slowly remembering how to control muscles, like a athlete standing to move onto the field for the first game of the season, Tom willed his eyes open.

Darkness. Perhaps he had died after all. All sense of victory dissipated. This was not how he expected Hell to be like. And if he was dead he would certainly not be anywhere else. At least there was no fire to roast him, and if any devil existed he was well out of sight. Then again, those were muggle superstitions, and muggles didn't know anything.

A drop of water on his face interrupted his musings. Surely it didn't rain in Hell? No, not rain, tears. A break in the foliage allowed moonlight to illuminate a huge bearded face above his. The half-giant his vessel had been so fond of; the man he had framed for opening the Chamber of Secrets fifty-five years earlier. They seemed to be moving quickly through a forest, if the uncomfortable jolts and occasional branches to the face were anything to go by. Tom made to hiss a word of caution at the half-breed—what if the oaf dropped him?—but quickly remembered his Slytherin side. It would not do to reveal himself so soon. He'd give them all a surprise worth remembering soon enough. With some effort, he twitched the corner of Potter's—no _his_—mouth, then closed his eyes and settled down for the ride.

ooOooOooOooOoo

Some time later—Tom wasn't sure, as years of living in a child's mind had made him quite skilled in the art of tuning out his surroundings—a sudden crescendo in sound alerted Tom to their arrival. Eyes still firmly shut, he listened to the horrified cries of young people—students, most likely—at the sight of Potter's corpse. They were screaming for him, some in loss and grief, but most in utter terror_. Serves them right_, he gloated,_ what fools place all their hope in one emotional teenager? Such idiots really don't have any purpose in this world. And soon, when I am in power, they won't be here at all._ The thought made him smirk. _So soon_.

"_Silencio_!" The screeched spell was followed by absolute silence. Tom listened as his—what was Voldemort to him? his future? his past? his other six-sevenths?—the _other_ him, began to gloat over their Savior's death. He sighed, after all the time Potter had encountered the Other, he had noticed that the Other's propensity for the dramatic had often prevented him from achieving his goal. Tom cracked an eyelid to better watch the proceedings: The Other, preaching gleefully to a captive (in more ways than one) audience; the Death Eaters looking like children in a candy store, or perhaps the damnable Weasley twins in Zonko's; the hairy brute holding him still sniffling disgustingly. A flicker in the corner of eye caught his attention and he saw the lump of a Longbottom sneak forward towards Nagini, unnoticed by the Other who was too absorbed in his rant. Tom saw a flash of silver and ruby, and remembered Potter's last words to the boy, an order to _kill the snake_. He sighed, he would have liked to keep his trump card a little longer, but now there was nothing else to do.

He collected his strength, then reached out his left hand and clearly enunciated "_Stupefy_."

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The Longbottom boy had no time to react before the red beam struck him and he fell to the ground. The rest of the crowd was likewise stupefied. Even the Other had a look of shock on his snake-like face. No one thought to move. No one dared to breath.

Silence reigned for a full minute before it was broken by a quiet voice, rough from crying but full of hope.

"Harry?"

The whispered word carried across the silent field.

Tom agilely leapt from the oaf's arms and turned to the crowd. He smirked, who said that he couldn't satisfy his own flair for the dramatic every once in a while?

"No, didn't you hear the Dark Lord? Potter is dead. I am Lord Voldemort."

The world erupted into chaos.

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The aforementioned Dark Lord stood unnaturally still as the crowd began their pitiful cries once more. What trick of Potter's was this, calling himself by _his_ rightful name? Before he could move again to kill the abomination, the boy came to him, sidestepping the Death Eater's curses with a practiced ease. Voldemort moved to curse the boy, but was stunned, for the third time in as many minutes, by Potter's eyes. Where hours before blazing emeralds had shone, coal black chips now stared. The sheer familiarity in that glare convinced him that this was not exactly the Potter he had shot the avada kedavra at an hour earlier.

"Perhaps, my Lord," Potter-that-was-not-Potter suggested, "we continue this elsewhere? I fear the crowd will remember our presence all too soon." And then, without waiting for a response, the teen unceremoniously grabbed the Dark Lord's arm and whisked them away into the familiar compression of apparition.

ooOooOooOooOoo

Sorry about the wait! I wanted to try and post a chapter every weekend, but I obviously crumpled in my resolve a bit too soon… Alas, but that there were more time in a day. I hope you enjoyed it, please review with your thoughts/suggestions for what will happen next!


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